The Bullies had not given up. Savage, sarcastic, insolent, they fought it out in the first of the ninth, bearing themselves, until the last man was down, as if they still believed they would win. Locke, however, had them at his mercy, refusing to prolong the agony by letting a hitter reach first. With some difficulty he fought off the delighted Kingsbridgers who swarmed, cheering, around him, and would have lifted him to their shoulders. When he finally managed to break clear of the throng he thought suddenly of Janet, and looked round for her. Benton King was driving toward the gate by which teams and autos were admitted to the field. She had lowered her parasol, and, before disappearing through the gate, she turned to gaze backward, as if looking for some one in the midst of the still-cheering crowd that covered the diamond. CHAPTER XLIV FACING HIS ACCUSERS Seasonable July weather caused discomfort for the seven persons assembled in the dingy office of Rufus Kilgore for the purpose of attending the meeting called to consider Manager Mike Riley’s claims. Riley himself, in his shirt sleeves, sat with his back toward one of the wide-open windows, a handkerchief tucked round his neck inside his collar, grumbling and smoking. Anson Graham, president of the league, a serious, middle-aged man, with block-trimmed whiskers, who had the look of one who might be just, but would rarely temper his justice with mercy, was talking to Kilgore, the secretary of the organization, who occupied the chair at the desk. David Farman and William Jones, representing Fryeburg and Lakeport, respectively, were aimlessly discussing various topics, such as the weather, crop prospects, and the ardent desire that the usual number of boarders from the city might be netted by the blandishments of advertisements which pictured the part of the country in which they were interested as a summer Eden. Benton King, appearing restless, talked in low tones to the ever-icy Bob Hutchinson. “Confound it!” growled Riley, looking at his watch. “Where’s Hen Cope ’n’ that man Hazelton? It’s one minute of time fur the meetin’ to begin, ’n’ they oughter be here.” “Perhaps they won’t come,” said the lawyer. “Cope is a mule, and he may try to block proceedings by staying away.” “But he can’t do that,” rasped Mike. “We can go ahead without him. It’s time. Hadn’t you better call the meetin’ to order, Mr. Graham?” At this moment, footsteps were heard on the stairs, and the door opened, to admit the puffing Kingsbridge grocer, who paused to remove his hat, mop his shining, moist dome, and look the assemblage over. “Good evenin’, ever’body,” he said pleasantly. “On time, ain’t I?” “Just about, an’ that’s all,” answered Riley. “Where’s th’ slip’ry guy that’s caused all this trouble?” “You mean Locke? Ain’t he here?” “I mean Hazelton, ’n’ he ain’t here.”